


Naamah’s Mistress

by SilverAsphodelMoonlight



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Alternate Medieval Mediterranean Nations History, Cereus House, Childhood, Courtesans, Cunnilingus, Destiny, F/F, Femslash, Fictional Gods and Goddesses, Fictional Religion & Theology, Intrigue, Lactation, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Sex, Lesbian learning about her identity, Mentor/Protégé, Minor Canonical Character(s), Nine-year-olds kissing in a non-sexual context, POV First Person, POV Minor Character, Polyamory, Prostitution, Prostitution is Sacred, Sacrilege, Set during Kushiel’s Dart, Sex Training, Teens learning about and practicing sexual acts in a safe and well-regulated environment, Voyeurism, sex and politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverAsphodelMoonlight/pseuds/SilverAsphodelMoonlight
Summary: The condition of Ellyn nó Cereus’s birth has secured her a position as an adept in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, promising her a future of comfort and prosperity. However, she has always wished for a life more like her nursery mate, Phèdre nó Delaunay, had—a life destined for more than the simple service to Naamah. Ellyn’s wish is answered when she learns she is a safiriette, giving her unique talents when serving women patrons. Because of this, the Dowayne of Cereus House arranges for the bulk of Ellyn’s training in Naamah’s arts to be done under the tutelage of Marquise Solaine Belfours, where Ellyn is thrust into a world of intrigue and dangerous plots that not even Phèdre was privy to at the time.
Relationships: Ellyn nó Cereus/Favrielle nó Eglantine, Ellyn nó Cereus/Marquise Solaine Belfours, Ellyn nó Cereus/Melisande Shahrizai, Ellyn nó Cereus/Nicola L'Envers y Aragon, Ellyn nó Cereus/Original Female Character(s), Ellyn nó Cereus/Phèdre nó Delaunay, Naamah/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 8





	1. The Legend of Safiria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellyn reflects on her years in the nursery of Cereus House, where she first learns of Safiria—a name at the center of much controversy amongst those who study and worship blessed Elua.

Lest anyone should suppose that I was a destiny-marked child, pricked by the hand of a god at my conception to designate me as their chosen one to enact some great and dangerous deed in their name, such as Phèdre nó Delaunay was, I may say that that my birth in the Night Court proper was unremarkably normal. 

The good it did me was a great deal, and nothing at which to scoff. Because I was a perfect child born of a sanctioned union, my appearance and budding nature falling within the cannon of Cereus House in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, I was formally adopted into the house when I was a babe. I was cherished by those who reared me, and promised that blessed Elua loved me from the moment I could remember. I received a generous education in the rudiments of secular knowledge. I knew that I would work in the service of Naamah, and by assessing my physical qualities and genealogy, the Dowayne could predict the quantity of fortune my services would accumulate, even back then. Eventually, I would make my marque, and live the rest of my days in comfort as a free D’Angeline. My future was assured and destined to follow a normal course of events. 

I do not doubt that my life would sound like a pleasant dream to others. But I dare say I had reason to despair. 

One would assume I resented Phèdre and her stark, spectacular specialness, denoted tangibly by the scarlet mote in her eye, and the fact her future was not set in stone, but precarious enough that the hand of fate could easily catapult her into greatness, should it so desire. But no, understand that I loved her too much. She gave me my first bittersweet taste of heartbreak, along with the first hint of the thing that does mark me as unique, although I did not understand it at the time. For that, I will be ever grateful to her. 

In my childhood, whenever the housekeepers or older adepts remarked on how “well suited” I was to the role to which I was born, or how I was a "perfect fit” in Cereus House, my mind would flash with the image of a polished cobblestone being fastidiously set into smooth mortar. For the rest of that stone’s existence, it would be rendered invisible. It would be an insignificant speck in a larger uniformed structure, and often trod on. 

Oftentimes, one of my various caretakers would comment how lucky and blessed I was to have such secure prospects, and my body would clench with an unnamed clammy dread, which I now know to be fear of complacency. I feared that I would never accomplish any great feat—such as composing a poem that would be sung throughout the realm for centuries to come, or thwarting a dangerous conspiracy and saving the sovereignty of Terre d’Ange—for as long as I lived. I despised the idea of being too busy with my duties as a servant of Naamah (I did not know what that entailed at the time) and entrenching myself in the infernal circuit of fêtes and societal events, studying the latest petty gossip and spending every ounce of energy I had on maintaining my reputation, as such I observed the older adepts doing, that I never got the chance to aspire to something greater. Everything that I am would disappear when I died, as surely, I would have done nothing worthy of being enshrined in immortality. 

But the thought that plagued me the most was not spurred on by an utterance of an external mouth—no. It was the voice in my own mind that berated me with the idea that I had nothing in my life or in my being to claim as truly, utterly, and uniquely mine. Everything I was and that I had could be ascribed to the fact my mother, an adept of Cereus House whose line was ancient in the Night Court, had lit a candle and opened her womb so her and my father, who no doubt was a man with delicately chiseled features and supple, strong muscles, could co-mingle their seed. Her womb was a mold designed in the shape of a perfect fragile courtesan, which she used to cast me. 

My mother first married a man and had, with him, Etienne, my half-brother. Then, nigh a year later, my mother took one of her patrons as a lover who would become the man I can technically call my father. I know nought else about either man, save for that my father was much younger than my brother’s. At first, one may think that would be an aspect of my nativity story I might claim to be scintillating or taboo—a dark stain on my pure situation that could help push me out of the crushing burden of normalcy. But you see, this was Terre d'Ange, and there are intricate laws and regulations regarding the taking of spouses, consorts, and lovers. Each of these sorts of bonds and relationships are respected and validated, even in high society. 

Upon her two children's acceptance into the Night Court, my mother gave herself over to the training of adepts, but her lodgings and her allegiances were transferred to Alyssum House. Her talents in exuding fragility translated well enough to the instruction of exuding modesty. 

This decision was not made out of cruelty or punishment. An arrangement such as this was routine and common in the Night Court. It is a long-held understanding that subjecting children to witness their parents instructing, sometimes demonstrating, service to Naamah, could naturally result in those children developing a distasteful regard for her arts. Inspiring disgust or discomfort in the act of honoring Naamah was the highest of blasphemy. My mother knew this arrangement was for the best, and that I would be no less nurtured in the foster care of Cereus House. 

Before my mother left, however, she named me Ellyn. Such a normal, flat sounding name. Derived from the name of a figure of great import in the Hellene mythos called Helen. While Helen’s life was entangled in great adventures involving wars, mortal kings, and gods, her defining characteristic was her beauty. In Terre d’Ange, beauty was as common a thing as air. To say a D’Angeline was beautiful was synonymous with saying they had a stomach. 

During the time Phèdre went on their long and arduous trading venture about Caerdicca Unitas, I lived out my toddling years in the steady, mellow rhythm of Cereus House. 

I fostered no ill feelings toward Cereus House itself. In fact, the place held a dreamlike, mystical quality that I rather loved. Mayhaps I felt that way, also, because the earliest years in a person’s life often feel like a dream, time seeming to skitter past in a jolting, confusing timeline. But my surroundings of marbled flagstones; high, dimpled windows that cast wavering rivulets of light, such as are cast on the bottom of a clear pool, across the walls; courtyards with plenty of hidden nooks among the thickets; sweet perfumes from the baths hanging thick in the air through the corridors; mystical, lusty murals in the great hall; and the constant chorus of soft, sublime moans emanating from the many rooms meant for receiving patrons and a few select classrooms playing day and night, rather intensified the dreamlike quality of my childhood. 

Likewise, despite my internal frustrations, I actually quite adored all of my nursery mates. I had Etienne, of course, with whom I spent those early languid, hazy days tumbling about the nursery floor—the entirety of which was overlaid with a sort of vast, springy mattress so that our doughy knees and hands would experience no discomfort as we crawled on it, and playing with a wooden figurine set consisting of a simple sailboat, a kameelperd, and an olifant by the window. The toys had been brought to the house, along with a mountain of gifts, when a drove of adepts returned from a rather extravagant assignation in Menekhet, where they served at an extravagant celebration for Pharoah Ptolomy Dikaios. 

I often played a child’s game of categorization in my mind, assigning all the figures in my life to a different specific time of a summer’s day or night. Etienne had pretty cherub’s curls of palest gold and clear blue eyes, reminding me of a summer sky at mid-noon. If Etienne was midday, then Juliette, who shared our nursery, was sunset. Two years my elder, Juliette had a natural blush on the back of her arms and over her cheeks, like the salmon that often glows in the west as the sun falls. Her brassy-gold hair, falling in rolling curls, was flecked with strands of russet, like bits of red flecking a late golden sky. Her pastime of choice was styling the nursery’s many dolls’ yarn hair, twisting and braiding to her heart’s content. Sometimes, when Etienne and I would tire of our antics, Juliette would let me poke my fingers into the barrels of her curls and run my fingertips over her scalp to watch her locks move and fall into place with rapt fascination. On more rare occasions, she would return the favor, and my body would sing with shivers of pure comfort. 

Etienne and I, being kin, shared a bassinet, and later, a crib. Around the time we made that switch, we spent a few allotted hours in a roomy courtyard each day, weather permitting. Etienne and I would mostly chase minuscule frogs and beetles through the glass while Juliette perched on the stony ridge surrounding a fountain’s pool, proudly admiring her reflection in the water and petting the jewel-like orange, white, and black scales of the Dowayne’s beloved koi fish when he swam near the surface. 

Suriah, an adept of particular renown in Cereus House, was our main caretaker then. I decided she was like dusk when I stared out the nursery window just before sleep overtook me. Her black hair was like the sky, and her pale, exquisite face like the moon and stars. I thought designating Suriah as dusk was particularly clever of me, as that was when I loved her presence the most. She would send us off into our reveries singing soft lullabies and spinning pleasing tales with a voice as soothing and liquid as cool water. 

Of course, Etienne, Juliette, and I were still children, and we were prone to the occasional outburst of emotion. I would learn later that the Night Court (save for Mandrake and Valerian, those houses still remain shrouded in mystery to me) had a unique and strictly adhered to system when it came to child rearing. Whenever one of us would inevitably fall to the floor sobbing or shouting in anger, fists clenched, Suriah would descend upon that child, sweeping them into her arms and crouching down with them in a separate room. She would embrace us as we sobbed or screamed, murmuring softly in response to whatever complaints we claimed were the cause of our distress until eventually, we forgot our distress altogether. 

If this sounds a foolishly soft way to discipline children, understand, too, that Cereus House had a utilitarian reason for this tactic. After Suriah had calmed us, we were never allowed a toy or sweet we whined for, and we were assigned grueling chores in punishment for any transgression we committed. The meaning of this singular practice was to never make us feel punished for the act of experiencing emotions itself. A more nuanced point we learn in our training at the Night Court is that patrons do not always seek out Naamah’s servants with a strict desire for love-making. Mayhaps that is the only reason patrons believe they desire us, but oftentimes, what they actually desire is a respite from the tense judgement in the tight-knit circles of the City of Elua, and a span of time alone with a person with whom they can share their most vulnerable woes without fear of embarrassment. Therefore, to keep our patrons well-pleased, it is of the utmost importance adepts are conditioned to feel comfortable with the presence of emotions, and not to have the impulse to cringe or tense when a person expresses them. 

As for the time of day I designated for myself: I liked to think of myself as that time of day that was not quite sunset, but too early to be dark. It was that time the poets called “the magic hour,” when the sun’s glow remained, but the fiery ball itself had slipped beneath the horizon, casting objects in soft shadows, the dark patches not so much looking ominous, but like playful hiding spots. I had pallor to my skin that was reckoned a coup in Cereus House, for it likened me to a frail bloom bowing its head upon the stem. My skin was so fair, the bluish veins shone from underneath it in some areas, like the small trickling creeks in the courtyards, reflecting blue like a slightly-darkened sky. My hair, silky and fine, was a delicate white-gold, like the way a marble wall shimmers when illuminated by lingering horizontal rays, and my eyes a jade green, like the muddled color of dull-lit leaves, with a striking wet sheen that twinkles like the street lamps on Night's Doorstep flickering on in the evenings. My lashes were long enough for me to feel them brushing fluidly on my tender cheeks as I closed them. Perhaps one feature I liked best about my appearance was my upper lip, as it was my most unique. The curve of it lifted high so that my mouth’s natural resting position was slightly parted. I liked to think that it gave me a look like the sweet rabbits who pattered through the garden. 

As I mentioned, time felt like a fluid thing back then, all events blending together in one mass of my memories, as the routines and my surroundings remained rarely changed from week to week. The only occurrences that I remember marking the day as different from the others is the periodic visits from Brother Louvel. He would sit, cross-legged, on the soft, coddling floor of the nursery, and Etienne, Juliette, and I would settle in around him. He would spin the old tale of how blessed Elua and Terre d’Ange came to be. Brother Louvel had nearly recited the entire Eluine cycle before Phèdre joined the nursery, but none of us minded hearing it from the beginning once more. His low, melodic voice had the power to keep us still, quiet, and transfixed. Although I rarely focused on his exact utterances, and some small detail in the tale often distracted me and caused my imagination to run rampant, the events of Elua’s story still managed to imprint themselves on my brain. 

For instance, during one of our religious instruction sessions, I thought of how I could never quite place Brother Louvel into a ‘time-of-day’ categorization. Perhaps this was because when I looked at him, I couldn’t stop thinking about how his long silken braid was like the slack rigging on the sail-bereft boat on which Elua and his companions floated after the King of Persis betrayed them and cast them to sea. Brother Louvel’s eyes were like the color I thought those waters must be. 

On another instance, while Brother Louvel dandled me on his left knee, and Juliette across from me on his right, my ears tuned in to his spoken words while he hummed about the Magdalene cradling Yeshua ben Yosef’s slackened body, pierced by the soldier of Tiberium’s spear and lowered from the cross, and spilling her torrent of ruddy-gold torrent of hair over his nakedness. Then, I looked up at Juliette, with her russet-tinged hair being the closest to what we conventionally consider to be “ruddy” or “red” hair I had yet seen in my life, and imagined her in place of the Magdalene, weeping her catalyst tears into the thick paste of earth mixed with blood spilt from Yeshua’s wound, sparking the creation of our most cherished angel, Elua. 

As it happened, Juliette’s expression in that moment was one of faraway sadness, her brow crossed delicately and her supple mouth pouting. Mayhaps she had been moved by Brother Louvel’s description of the Magdalene’s grief, or mayhaps somewhat else troubled her. Nonetheless, it was an exquisite expression that made me want to hold her face, partially to comfort the pain I saw there, but mostly, out of a desire to more completely behold the gorgeous image just in front of me. But then, some unfamiliar embarrassment clenched my inner being, holding me back from doing so. I did, however, allow for my hand to drift through the empty space hanging over Brother Louvel’s lap, reaching one of her ginger-tinged curls, rubbing the tufty end of it between my childishly-stout thumb and forefinger. In an instant, her brow relaxed and her pout transformed into a small, quirking smile, her honey-brown eyes flickering upward to meet mine. 

In that moment, a sublime sensation wracked every nerve in my body. It was as if there had been an empty space inside of me, and suddenly, every line and shape of the sight of Juliette fit flush and snug against the edges of that void. As if the shape of her had fallen into position in such a way that she was illustrating some otherwise intangible, invisible thing that I couldn’t hope to name or explain.

During another of Brother Louvel’s sessions, when Juliette and I had resumed the same positions on either side of his lap, we heard of how the collective merry and hearty songs of Elua and his companions' descendants who dwelt in Terre d’Ange had finally risen to a tumult so boisterous, it shook the One God from his reverie of grief. The One God then turned his eyes and ears to the land of Terre d’Ange, where angels had dared mix their seed with bloodfull mortals—mortals who dared pledge their love for each other and earthly things above all else. And then, Brother Louvel declared he would resume the story when he saw us again. I shivered. In my mind’s eye, the One God, with his all-encompassing wrath and exacting justice, was the most terrifying figure in any tale ever told to me. It nearly pained me that I would have to wait a week, not knowing Elua’s fate. 

I told Brother Louvel this in hopes he would have mercy and tell us just the next line of the story. He laughed and told me that the anticipation would make hearing the climax of the story sweeter.

It was routine that at this point in a religious instruction session, Brother Louvel would allow us to burst with the profusion of questions children are wont to have after sitting quietly for an excess of time. Though most of our questions, I know now, must have seemed trivial and a bit silly (for example, I recall one time when Phèdre begged to know more about the Eagle of Tiroc Pass, a creature Brother Louvel mentioned in passing during his narration, and he deigned to elaborate on the benevolent bird who fed blessed Elua berries from his beak), but we were serious about our inquiries. On that day, Etienne, with his belly flat on the padded floor, his chin propped in his hands, swallowed before coming forward with his question trepidly.

“Please, what do you know about the name Safiria?” Etienne asked.

He gave no more context as to why this curiosity was so pressing on his mind, and I still do not know where he had learned the name in the first place.

At the sound of it, Brother Louvel’s eyebrows rose toward his wheaten hairline. 

“Oh!” he said, the sudden unsurety to his otherwise consistent and calm voice causing my body to tense. Then, he tilted his head to either side as if it were a tilting rod on a scale, apparently considering somewhat, and the mild traces of unease in his expression faded. “Yes, Safiria. Love’s love. Desire’s desire. Sought after by heaven’s most sought after,” Brother Louvel continued, resuming his usual cadence. “Understand that we priests do not speak of Safiria, she who they call Naamah’s mistress, in our teachings as we do the Magdalene, the King of Persis, Cassiel, Kushiel, and all the others. Those figures, gods and mortals alike, we must believe with the deepest faith truly walked the earth with Elua, for that is what is said in the most holy of sacred scripture transposed by poets during those three score years blessed Elua and his companions made to dwell here in Terre d’Ange. Those poets did not tell of Safiria. But, we are D’Angeline, and we recognize all faiths practiced throughout the nations, because many peoples love many different gods. To dismiss their love would violate the precept of blessed Elua.” 

Brother Louvel paused with a sort of expectant, parted-lipped smile and looked around at the three of us.

“‘Love as thou wilt,’” Etienne, Juliette, and I recited in unison, by now well-trained to reply in such a way when Brother Louvel gave this expression. 

“Now, she who is said to be named Safiria was not a goddess, but I believe she has become a different sort of deity to those whose faith lies in scholarly pursuits, literature, and history. Mayhaps later, when you begin your academic studies, you will learn why some deny this mortal woman’s existence. As for me, however, I recognize the stories told about her in the same way I recognize the gods of foreign lands. And her story is this: 

“Blessed Elua and his companions came to land in Bhodistan after the King of Persis had cast them out to sea, as you know. You also know that they wandered, singing and leaving a trail of freshly-sprouted flowers in their wake, and they were unbothered and ignored by the people of Bhodistan and their multitude of gods. But some believe that one woman, Safiria, saw the light in Elua, and was deeply moved by his message of loving earthly things. So she, a young beauty with hair like a river at midnight, the daughter of a man who laid sandstone and marble for the construction of a great temple a small ways inland from the coast of Bhodistan, left her home to follow Elua and join his companions in their wanderings. Rather, it may be more accurate to say she led this band of angels in their wanderings. 

“Though it is said in the Eluine Cycle that the gods of Bhodistan paid Elua no heed, in this version of the story, the Bhodistani gods did not idly concede to the One God’s beatnik grandson traipsing into their domains and preaching his own ideals, giving no care if by doing so, he flouted theirs. Fortune allowed that he make landfall in a more compassionate goddess’s province, because on the first night Naamah laid down with a stranger for coin in the marketplace, this goddess, appalled by the band of angels’ brazenness, appeared to them in an alleyway, demanding they made an offering in her newly-constructed temple and humbling themselves to her while her worshipers watched, or else she would find a less gentle way to force humility upon them. 

“Safiria, knowledgeable of the many gods and vast geography of her homeland, guided Elua and his companions to the north of Bhodistan, ensuring that the band wended through only provinces of compassionate gods who would ask nothing more than an offering at their temples in exchange for safe passage. She knew that certain gods, gods who demanded utter devotion to the divine and championed purity, righteousness, and order would likely smote Elua on the spot the moment he trespassed the borders of their jurisdiction. So, she plotted a stealthy, swiveling course northward. Once the band reached the more uncharted, harsh, and stony lands north of Bhodistan, Safiria allowed the ravens and wolves who flocked to Elua’s aide to lead the rest of the journey, and she reveled in the adventure of it.

“Throughout this journey, from the moment Safiria joined the angels, Naamah—the Bright Lady, beauty incarnate—had fostered a secret. She had seen Safiria and instantaneously become feverishly, crushingly lovestruck, and felt the innermost chambers of her heart—the sections she shielded from the strangers with whom she lied—pledging their unconditional devotion to the mortal before any rational thought could hope to stop them. But, in fear of startling the mortal girl with a confession of love upon first meeting her, the angel held her tongue. That night, when the scorned goddess came to chastise Naamah for her licentiousness, Naamah feared Safiria, having been raised to worship the goddess, might regard this behavior with the same distaste. Then, when Safiria offered to navigate through the theistic complexities of Bhodistan, Naamah feared this meant Safiria was exasperated by the naivety of these angels who were privy to the knowledge of the heavens and should have known better. And so, as they traveled, Naamah’s fear of Safiria’s judgement and rejection drove her to hide her ever-intensifying yearning. Worst, she knew that this abstaining violated Elua’s commandment to ‘love as thou wilt.’ The guilt and fear stewing inside of her had morphed love of another into self-hatred. 

“And so you see, one of many reasons some deny Safiria’s existence so fervently is because it leaves a dark stain on the legacy of our beloved Naamah.

“The dam containing Naamah’s feelings did crack, but not until Elua and those who followed him had come to Terre d’Ange and had frolicked in the rich and beautiful land where olives, grapes, and melons grew for a year hence. One evening, Naamah found Safiria resting on a round boulder in the middle of a grassy hill with a touch of sadness in her gaze, despite the frivolity surrounding them. Naamah took her courage in both hands and went to ask Safiria what was the matter. Safiria opened herself up to Naamah and confided that, though she had loved her time on this venture and experienced more in life than she dared dream before Elua had arrived on the shore of her village, she dearly missed her mother and father, and as of late, had longed for home. 

“Naamah’s heart broke, and so did her pretenses. She let loose her secret desires, not sparing a single detail of the inner turmoil it had caused her. And because she loved her, she could not bear for Safiria’s pain to continue. Naamah told Safiria she could send her home in an instant, but first, she fell to her knees before the rock and begged that Safiria first grant her one night. Safiria acquiesced. There are stories and poems written about their night of pleasure on the grass by that boulder. 

“In the morning, Naamah, with her heavenly powers, called upon a cloud, which took on a rosy tint and smelled of lavender, to descend to the earth. The cloud was soft, but strong enough that when Safiria hopped atop it, it held her steadfast. The cloud then rose and flew Safiria back to her mother and father in a village by the sea in Bhodistan.

“Those who believe in Safiria’s story say the River Naamah in Namarre came to be when Naamah wept over the boulder as Safiria drifted away on a gentle breeze, the intensity of her angelic emotions stirring up a commotion in an underground reserve of water below where she slumped. A geyser shot up through the earth, pushing the boulder aside and spilling over the countryside.

“And there you have it, Etienne. So, Safiria. So the legend of Naamah’s mistress. I do think there is value in you knowing it,” Brother Louvel finished. 

I swallowed a knot in my throat. Even in Terre d’Ange, even in the heart of the Night Court, I had never known that a woman could love another woman as Naamah had loved Safiria. The most I had heard on the subject of adult relationships was about couples who were wed and begot children, and by random chance, I had seen a handful of male patrons in the corridors being led by female adepts to their receiving chambers. As I processed this new information about the world, something moved within me, and not unpleasantly. 

“Safiria sounds very smart and brave,” Juliette said, distractedly pulling on Brother Louvel’s braid as if it truly were the rigging on a mainsail. 

The hinges on the nursery door whined softly as Jareth Moran, the Dowayne’s second, came in to collect Brother Louvel and walk him to his carriage, as was customary when the allotted time for him to deliver his lesson had ended. 

“But what did Safiria say to Naamah? Did she not love her, too?” I blurted out, thinking that I might be sick if it turned out in the end that Naamah’s feelings had been unrequited. 

Brother Louvel made a sharp intake of breath and jerked his head to look up at the doorway. My own breath caught in my throat as I turned to look, as well. 

Jareth, already the person with the grizzliest features I had ever seen in my life, had hardened his features into a stern rictus. The effervescent buzz of emotions and excitement simmering through my veins chilled at the sight of it. Apparently, in their shared glance, he and Brother Louvel had communicated, in the unspoken way adults are wont to do in front of children, that there was a topic that needed to be discussed away from where young ears could hear them. 

Brother Louvel gracefully lifted Juliette off of his knee by her underarms, setting her neatly beside him on the cushioned floor, then did the same to me in turn. He rose and went to Jareth. 

“The boy voiced his curiosity about the name. He must have heard it elsewhere. As his religious educator, I only find it appropriate…” Brother Louvel said the moment both men disappeared behind the door. 

After that, their speech became heated, staccato murmurs. Suriah, her face usually a portrait of placid serenity, suddenly contorted her brow with sharp furiosity. She stood from her sateen pouf in the corner—her usual seat on which she oversaw our lessons—and went to open the door a crack and push her head through, 

“Honestly, do you think I would have allowed for the lecture to continue if I thought he were conveying anything inappropriately?” she said in a low hiss. 

“Thank you for your vote of confidence, Suriah. But not to worry,” came Brother Louvel’s voice, now purposefully loud and audible to us in the nursery. “Your Dowayne’s second and I have arrived at an understanding.” 

Brother Louvel reentered the room. Without lowering himself to the floor to speak to us in his usual manner, he looked down at us from his towering adult height, stating without emotion that the Eluine church did not recognize the claims that any such mortal woman undeniably lived and interacted with Elua’s companions in such a way, and the belief in or pursuit of evidence with the intent of presenting her existence as truth was considered blasphemy. However, the analysis of the poems and ancient written texts concerning the lady Safira for the purpose of studying prose, writers’ craft, and the authors of those texts was perfectly acceptable, for Safiria was, undoubtedly, a fictional character who made a great impact in literature. 

With that, he said goodbye with the reminder of “love as thou wilt” and took his leave. From then on, he only ever spoke of the strictly canonical events in the Eluine cycle and the holiest of ways we could practice our faith in the angelical founders of Terre d’Ange. 

But I would think back to Safiria’s story often, daydreaming about how Safiria and Naamah must have looked, how the Bright Lady would have flirted despite herself during their journey, and what that first kiss after so much pent-up longing must have felt like to her. I reveled in the poignant ache that would fill my belly to think of these things as a child, and later in my adolescence, when my mind needed a distraction from chores or lessons. 

Solaine maintained that I was so immediately and powerfully drawn to this story because the romance between two women reflected my eventual destiny, and perhaps she was right. I liked to think that it was more complex than that, and the narrative of long, tortured pining released in a bittersweet climax piqued my fascination, as well. But I do admit that, when I think back to my reaction to first hearing of a woman loving another woman—is it any wonder, then, that I became what I did?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m planning to follow the same pacing as Kushiel’s Dart does, hence the explicit rating, even though the first few chapters will be more or less PG.


	2. The Safiriette Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phèdre joins the nursery at Cereus House, bringing excitement into Ellyn’s cloistered life. While comforting Phèdre, who is distraught after her mother sells her to the Dowayne, Ellyn feels an angelic presence.

I remember the moment when I first discovered the gift Naamah bestows on her _safiriettes_.

It was one late afternoon in my fifth year, a year after Brother Louvel had let slip the legend of Safiria. Etienne, Juliette, and I had finished our lessons and chores, dined, and were idling about the nursery as usual, entertaining ourselves as best we could in our free hours before bedtime. By now, each of us had our own small, quaint bed nestled under the windows. 

That day, an unprecedented occurrence interrupted our mild, tranquil-paced routine. There was an urgent knock at the door, and Suriah sprung up from her pouf to answer it. One of the Dowayne’s servants entered, walking backwards, for he carried with him one end of a fourth small bed that was fully outfitted with linens and pillows. A second servant filed in after the bed, carrying the other end. Etienne, Juliette, and I dropped our various toys and shuffled to the middle of the room together, standing there uncomfortably and watching as the servants situated the bed among the line of our own. Suriah went to converse with the servants. They murmured so lowly and quickly that we had no hope of understanding their words.

“I have to leave you for the shortest while. Juliette,” Suriah said, addressing the eldest child in our group, “I trust that nothing will happen while I’m gone.”

And so Suriah left swiftly, along with the two servants, leaving us to stare at each other in confusion. 

“Do you think one of our beds is crawling with sucker-bugs? Should we stay far away until they come to take it away?” Etienne asked seriously. “I hear they can fill up on your blood and swell to the size of grapes.” 

“No. That is unlikely. I think somebody is coming to stay with us,” Juliette said with an air of sensibility. 

I looked up at her with admiration, as I was always impressed by her knowledgeability and calm resolve in those days. The sun had just begun to set, and its ruddy beams were shining through the window at such an angle that one fell directly on Juliette, seeming to fill the barrels of her curls and suffuse with the actual strands of her hair with rosy light so her head practically glowed pink. I remember this now, and I almost wish to curse my younger self for not realizing how much I loved her and taking her steady presence for granted. 

We weren’t left waiting too long before Juliette’s deduction was proven right. 

Suriah returned, now walking beside an unfamiliar child and holding her hand. As my gaze fell upon the small girl, that sublime sensation I had felt when Juliette had sat across from me on Brother Louvel’s lap returned. Only, this time, instead of my nerves buzzing pleasantly, it felt as if boiling river rapids were churning through my body. And the shape of this strange girl didn’t fall into place neatly, illustrating something that simply looked _right_ to me in a way I couldn’t explain—no, it seemed more like that invisible outline that must have made sense somewhere deep in my subconscious materialized around her while she flickered in and out of its confines.

She had a look like a doe who had been wounded with a hunter’s arrow, with large, round bistre eyes, glistening with restrained tears, that darted about the luxurious nursery. Her jaw was clenched and I could hear her sucking in frantic, uneven breaths through her nose. Her expression was a complex mixture of pain, fear, and a sort of furious excitement. I didn’t think anything of the red spot in those doe-like eyes, as I had only ever met a few dozen people, and I figure this could have been a normal trait among those in the outside world. But what did take me by surprise was her yellowing chemise, rough-spun sheath dress with many frayed threads around the hem, and scuffed leather shoes that were so formless, they looked like coin purses slipped over her feet—so different than the damask garments and fine slippers I was accustomed to. After spending every moment of my life inside the walls of pale, swooning Cereus House, this disheveled girl and her intense demeanor looked positively like a wild creature to my eyes. 

It also struck me that, while Juliette, Etienne, and I had a healthy doughiness to our limbs, having been always spoiled with lavish meals, this slight girl’s limbs were straight and supple. She did not appear gaunt or starved, but like she was used to a lot of physical exertion, and therefore her muscles had developed into marvels of delicate strength. And her hair—Elua, her hair. It was a charming profusion of curls, but not the sort of curls that grew in discernible ringlets. It was a swirling mass of tendrils the color of sable in shadows, somehow sleek and tangled all at once—a beast in of itself. 

The girl’s blood-pricked gaze swiveled toward me, and her expression hardened into a defensive glare. Heat radiated from my face as I glanced away, realizing I had been staring. 

“Juliette, Ellyn, Etienne—This is Phèdre.” Suriah looked down and smiled at the girl. “The bed you see there, the one at the end, is just for you. Now, you three, I know this is sudden, but Phèdre will be—”

“Are you sure you’re not supposed to be putting me up in the stables, seeing as I’m a whore’s unwanted get?” Phèdre said, her voice eerily clear and sharp for a child’s.

This stunned me. I didn’t quite grasp the meaning of her words, but I knew they were scathing, and that Phèdre had meant them to be so. Juliette, Etienne, and I sometimes behaved badly when we fell into our sour moods, but we always felt guilty when Suriah pointed out how we were being hurtful. And we certainly never acted out on purpose. 

“Oh no, dear,” Suriah said, kneeling gracefully next to Phèdre, their hands still connected. “She shouldn’t have said that. Especially not in front of you. She should have known better.”

“Well, she didn’t. Even though she must be at least a hundred years old,” Phèdre said, snatching her hand out of Suriah’s and crossing her arms. 

“Don’t be silly. I assure you, she is over a thousand,” Suriah replied teasingly. A quirk of a smile crept into the corners of Phèdre’s mouth. “Phèdre, I promise you are wanted among us. Very much.”

Phèdre snapped her features back into a scowl, jerked away, and stomped toward her bed, her knees wobbling due to her unfamiliarity with the padded nursery floor. A tear slipped from her eye, and she slapped her face roughly to brush it away. Suriah sighed and went to sit on her pouf. 

Acting in the most natural and logical way I knew how, I skittered toward Phèdre, my arms outstretched. When she saw what I was doing, she flinched and backpedalled, drawing her arms close to her chest as if protecting herself from me. Like a cat fleeing from unwanted grubby hands attempting to pet her. My chest immediately stung from the cold rejection. I dropped my arms, tears now prickling in my eyes.

“Ellyn, sometimes people don’t like to be touched, and that is alright. And remember that you just met Phèdre,” Suriah said. 

“But… but she is crying,” I spluttered, my bottom lip trembling.

I had been so conditioned to receiving embraces to quell all bad feelings that leaving Phèdre be, without an embrace, seemed like not providing a bandage to a person spurting blood from a cut. 

“I suppose…” Phèdre said, crawling into her bed and sitting on top of the covers to stare out of a window, putting her back to us. “I might like if someone pressed the knots out of my shoulders, just like my father—”

At the last word, her voice dwindled into a strangled hiccup, she pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face into her skirt. Sobs burst out of her in earnest. I scrambled onto the bed behind her. Not having the first idea how to go about fulfilling her request—though I knew the general idea behind soothing muscle tensions from Suriah’s simplified explanation of the skills practiced at Balm House—I nervously placed my palm on her back and rubbed it in a flat circle, the same way I would rub a cloth over a dish to dry it. 

“It’s alright, Phèdre. Don’t be scared. We’re nice, I swear,” I said, doing my best to imitate Suriah’s reassuring ways. 

“My mother threw me away,” Phèdre mewled. 

“So did my mother. She did the same to Etienne, too. He’s my brother,” I said, innocently ignorant to how poorly I understood Phèdre’s situation. 

“Do you still miss her?”

“Not really. I don’t remember her.”

“Then it’s not the same thing,” Phèdre spat into her knees. Her anger stung me, but I stayed there, continuing my circling. “I’ll never meet my brother or sister.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nevermind. Anyway, you’re doing it wrong.”

Phèdre impatiently flung one arm behind her, grappling at my hand and pressing it harder against her back. 

That was the moment something otherworldly overtook me. 

A scent so heavy, I could nearly taste it swirled around my head. I knew there was no earthly object around me that could have emanated the scent. It was a mixture of sweet roses, tangy peonies, and musky, heady ambrette. 

My body started moving with purpose. It wasn’t as if I had lost control and some separate power was using me like a puppet—no. It was more like somebody had heard me subconsciously pleading to know how to comfort Phèdre properly, and that same somebody wordlessly answered me. I only moved so swiftly because of my own determination. 

I shifted onto my knees so that I could draw myself up a little higher. I moved my hand so it laid in the crook of Phèdre’s neck and positioned my thumb between her spine and the top of her shoulder blade. I leaned all of my weight into my thumb so that it sank into her tense muscle with surprising ease, and I pushed firm circles into her flesh.

“Keep doing that,” her muffled voice said. “Please.”

When it registered to me that my ministrations were pleasing her, something fluttered in some hidden corner of my stomach. A rush of tingles erupted from a point on the thumb I had driven into her shoulder. My hand sang in delight and my nerves thrilled with it. 

Phèdre raised her head so that I could see her profile. Though tears stained her cheeks, her expression was tranquil. Now, I could fully appreciate her soft features, which were carved on her young face in miniature perfection. The rays of sunset shone on her head, and instead of soaking them up, like Juliette’s hair had, Phèdre’s ebony curls seemed to be fighting the light in order to preserve their darkness. Therefore, the spots where the sun did highlight her hair blazed like tiny licks of orange flame. 

Because I was a child, I thought that the way I was enamored by her beauty and rattled by her sudden introduction into the nursery meant I had fallen in love with her. My mind flashed back to Brother Louvel’s description of Naamah and Safiria’s first meeting: _She had seen Safiria and instantaneously become feverishly, crushingly lovestruck._

Then, I thought about how Phèdre had flinched away from me, and Suriah’s warning not to throw myself at this girl who I just met. Again, Brother Louvel’s words echoed in between my ears: _But, in fear of startling the mortal girl with a confession of love upon first meeting her, the angel held her tongue._

 _Mayhaps_ I was being dramatic and wanted to play-pretend like I was a figure from my favorite story. But Naamah feared she was unwanted by Safiria, and what had she done? Pined. Pined for years. So then, I resolved, I would pine for Phèdre.


	3. Conspiring in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellyn, Phèdre, Juliette, and Etienne graduate from the nursery. For the next three years, they form a bond of childhood camaraderie and make a habit of meeting in secret to guess at the mysteries of Naamah’s arts.

A year passed and Phèdre, Etienne, Juliette, and I spent most of our time in each other’s company. Brother Louvel still periodically came for our religious instruction, but on most days, Suriah and other adepts gave us lessons in poetry, music, basic history, and reading and writing D’Angeline. They occupied us with menial chores, and sometimes had us prepare bedchambers or serve at dinners when important figures throughout the realm came for social and business occasions. 

I detested this last task, as it was during those times when my anxieties about insignificance and a future of monotony weighed down on me the most. Before each of these dinners, our instructors would fret and fuss over Phèdre, reminding her to keep her eyes cast always downward. This would make my insides pound with indignation, both because I thought it insulting that they couldn’t see the beauty in her crimson spot, and because it meant they ignored me, presuming I would play my role nicely. Then, the guests would arrive, and I cannot describe how much I hated their conversations. Each dinner seemed like a contest in which players vied to say the most shallow, petty, or condescending statement of the night.

In my sixth year, my peers and I graduated from the nursery. Suriah advocated for us so that we might make this change together, despite our slight differences in ages. She also finagled some arrangement with the Dowayne and Jareth Moran so that our new rooms were located four-in-a-row in the same corridor. In those days, we had an early curfew—earlier than sundown. Suriah would usher us to the baths after supper, see to it that we washed our faces and behind our ears, then tucked us into our respective beds. At first, I despaired that my evenings were now to be spent in silent solitude, with only the wooden kameelperd and olifant I managed to smuggle away during the move as company, and a cold, hard floor to greet my feet when I crossed the room to use the chamber pot. But it didn’t take us long to realize that after Suriah bade us good night, no adult deigned to care what happened in our corridor until morning. 

So, it quickly became a routine for Phèdre, Etienne, and I to slip from our rooms and skitter to Juliette’s in the evening. While the nursery was on the second floor, with its windows looking out over the wall that enclosed all of Cereus House and its grounds, our new rooms were ground-level. Their windows provided rather claustrophobic views of a small length of garden and a flat plane of white-gray wall. At least a charming lichen-encrusted fountain lay outside Juliette’s window, hence why we chose her room as a meeting place.

Finally able to converse together, unsupervised, we reveled in discussing all the things we couldn’t have in front of the adults. 

For instance, Etienne told us how he had been helping in the kitchens while a shipment of melons from Jebe-Barkal arrived, and he had overheard the Dowayne chastising Jareth. Jareth had, unprompted, begun to explain growing seasons and the finicky methods of food preservation that made these melons such a rare treat in Terre d’Ange. 

“I wonder how you think I arranged for these fruits to arrive at their peak ripeness, precisely the day before this fête, without knowing these things? Tell me, Jareth, which do you do faster—assume you are the only person in the world to know of a subject or spill your seed?” the Dowayne had said. 

None of us huddling on Juliette’s bed understood the implications of this jibe, but we snickered with jittery mirth when Etienne recounted it all the same. 

Eventually our secret meetings came to focus on a single topic. As we grew and became more aware and observant of our surroundings, we realized there was a major aspect of the establishment to which we belonged that remained a mystery. We had known, in theory, that completing chores and attending lessons were not the only duties that would ever be expected of us, and that someday, we were expected to train and work in Naamah’s service. 

The clearest explanation we had been provided as to what Naamah’s service entailed came from Brother Louvel. He told us Naamah laid down with strangers, and entering her service meant doing the same. Mentions of love-making, patrons, assignations, and adepts performing their duties in the bedchamber were spoken around us every day. However, we knew that no adult planned on clarifying these things to us anytime soon.

We whispered and giggled about our theories regarding this topic, which mostly revolved around kissing and disrobing, until one night, Juliette announced that she had learned the definition of ‘ _languisement_.’ I had heard the word plenty, but thought it was somewhat to do with stuffy adult business, so I never cared that I didn’t know what it meant. 

Juliette said she had been charged with tending to the potted plants in a wing of Cereus House designated for instruction halls and practice rooms. She was passing by a door with her watering pail while a group of adepts slightly our elder were having a lesson, and the instructor gave the definition quite simply and plainly. 

We burst into speculation about all the patrons we had seen visiting and how they must have received the _languisement_ , and about the adepts we knew who must have performed the _languisement_ regularly. Even _Suriah_ must have done it. We discussed this with frantic glee, talking over each other impatiently and nearly forgetting to breathe until very late in the night. All the while, Juliette seemed to inflate with pride at having made such a discovery and impressing us so—sitting tall on top of the covers.

After that, each of us made it our goal to ascertain the most titillating tidbit of information on this subject as we went about our days in order to impress the others with our finds when we regrouped at night. 

It had always been Phèdre’s wont to neglect her chores and wander the grounds of Cereus House, and poking her head into hidden spaces more than the rest of us would dare. Therefore, she managed to uncover another piece in the puzzle of Naamah’s mysteries a few days later. She had sought out the practice room which Juliette had described. When the room was empty, Phèdre went in and stole a card depicting ink diagrams of the crude mechanics of what is most traditionally considered ‘paying homage to Naamah.’ 

Although the idea of _languisement_ intrigued me, I only felt a knot of slight disgust in my belly at Phèdre’s discovery. A bout of dread washed over me at the thought of one day having to perform this act with a man to repay my debt to Cereus House for providing me room and board. But I pushed those thoughts away as best I could. I tried to focus on the fountain’s splashing and pattering, and how Phèdre’s joy played across her perfect features. Then, she divulged that she might like to do this act with Brother Louvel once she was a woman proper, delivering a swift stab of jealousy to my chest, effectively distracting me from my discomfort. 

I had no luck in uncovering any such secret for the longest time, until it so happened I was sweeping down a corridor and came past an open-area lounge—a place strewn with chaises, armchairs, and small, dainty tables laid with water pitchers and bowls of fresh mint. Patrons sometimes gathered here to socialize and freshen their palates while waiting to meet Jareth or the Dowayne. At the moment, it was deserted, save for a wet nurse who had taken advantage of the peace and quiet and set up her workspace at the far end of the lounge. 

The woman had a round face, her features a marvel of country beauty. She possessed much more soft flesh and bold, round curves than I was accustomed to seeing, as the Night Court was filled with willowy slips of people. I imagined that if she embraced me, I would be lost in sublime warmth and comfort. She wore a fine satin dress and a linen apron laid over her lap. 

Of course, what fascinated me most about this sight was that the woman had undone the lacing on the front of her bodice, allowing one panel to fall away from her chest, her breast seeming to spill out of the confines of her clothes. I had seen depictions of nude women in the murals around the place, but those were stiff, stylized images. This woman’s plump breast was full and supple, the areola as round as a saucer. Bluish veins traced down to the nipple. She cradled a babe—an adept newly introduced into the world who would no doubt take up residency in the nursery I had just deserted—in her sturdy, bread-loaf arms as the child suckled her. 

I rushed to hide behind a nearby plinth displaying a marble bust of an old Dowayne in some half-thought-through attempt to hide, my broom dragging behind me. I stared, mesmerized by the breast and the thin trickle of milk escaping down the babe’s cheek. If stealth was my goal, I failed at it miserably. Being so enraptured, I lost any perception of the rest of my surroundings until a tall shadow fell over me. I nearly jolted out of my skin.

A thin hand like an old claw fastened around my left shoulder and wrenched me backward. My broom dropped from my fingers. I peered up at the current Dowayne sheepishly, craning my neck due to her height. 

“So,” she said, her gimlet gaze bearing down on me. “I suppose you are volunteering to fetch fresh towels for Madame Melodie.”

Phèdre often grumbled about how she hated the Dowayne, but I didn’t mind the woman so much. Her presence invariably made me stiffen in fear of her harsh chiding, but her quick wit impressed me, and sometimes amused me. It also liked the way her aged bones poked through her skin to make strong, refined angles, and how her sharp chin created perfect balance with the high, tight gray bun she always wore. 

She had never acknowledged me before. I was too small of a player in her grand operation. 

I believe she had only conceded to address me in that moment because I happened to be doing quite an awkward thing in a rather conspicuous position. At first, all I saw in her gaze was exasperation at having to spare the effort to put me back in line. But then she kept me in her grasp, staring down at me. I swear somewhat more played in her expression. Something calculating, perhaps hopeful. 

I trembled and stammered a few nonsensical noises, pleading for my brain to concoct a sufficient excuse. The Dowayne lifted her claw-like grasp to cut me off with a gesture, then pointed in the directions of the baths, where I might find fresh towels.

I went, and when I finished shuddering with embarrassment, I felt a strange triumph at having done something that made the most powerful woman I knew notice me. 

What I had seen had nothing to do with Naamah’s arts or pleasure, but I reported this event during that night’s secret meeting. The others only looked at me, perplexed, when I finished the story. 

“Yes, Ellyn, all babies have to do that before they can chew food. I remember Madame Melodie coming to nurse you all the time when you were just born,” Juliette said. 

“When I was riding around in the cart with mother and father, we’d pass by villages and caravans and see plenty of babies sucking on nipples,” Phèdre added matter-of-factly. “Most animals have places where milk comes out for their babies, and we can take the milk, too, so—” 

“That’s how we get milk and cheese and cream. I already knew that,” I mumbled. 

I flushed so deeply, the pink of my nose glowed in my line of vision. I wanted to tell them that I understood the concept of breastfeeding perfectly well, thank you very much, and my excitement came from having seen a breast. But my humiliation made me too flustered to explain this.

I thought, surely, I had something that would impress the others when, some time later, I had been tasked with scrubbing a path of sticky footprints off the marble leading out of a bedchamber. Apparently, a patron had requested to use syrup as part of his pleasure-play. 

The door to this bedchamber lay near an open archway leading to a courtyard. I know now that it is a common thing for a patron to ask to enjoy portions of their time with an adept in one of the courtyards when the weather is mild. Usually, the administration of Cereus House would take significant measures to ensure these outdoor sessions had no unwanted disruptions or onlookers. That day, there had clearly been some lapse in communication.

I was enjoying the breeze wafting in from the courtyard, bringing with it a perfume of flowers and soil, as best I could while my wrists cramped and the skin on my forearms became increasingly tacky with syrup, when a melodic giggling cut through the grating noise of my wire brush scraping against marble. I looked up and through the archway. Two figures sat on a bench amidst a plot of lilies. Overhanging willow branches nearly tickled the tops of their heads. 

One of these figures was a man. He was D’Angeline, but besides that, I don’t remember any part of what he looked like. The second figure was Alezae, an adept I often saw in passing with brassy-blonde waves like spun gold. Their lips were locked together and their heads swayed back and forth in unison, as if they were in some competition to see who could push the other to the opposite side of the bench. Suddenly, the man surged forward. Alezae surrendered the competition, breaking from the kiss with a soft, hitching breath, and pressed a hand on the seat behind her to keep herself from tumbling over backwards. I can recognize now that Alezae was performing Cereus House’s cannon superbly in this motion—acting as if her patron’s passion had grown so strong and intense, her fragile body had nearly wilted to the ground from it. 

Her hair had slipped into disarray, tumbling down her front in a mass of gold tangles. The man drew up his hands to push the hair behind her shoulders. Alezae wore a gown of silvery-blue silk, the bust of which consisted of two long triangles tapering into long ribbons that tied in the back of her neck. The man toyed with one of the ribbons where it lay over her collarbone, running it between his index and middle finger. She fluttered her eyes down toward his fingers with overexaggerated shyness. 

Slowly, Alezae regained her balance and reached to the nape of her neck, fiddling with her ribbons. In an instant, the liquid-silk triangles slinked downward and fell from her breasts. 

Though I couldn’t even tell you the man’s hair color, I remember that I could practically feel the pure rapture emanating from his expression, wonder and something like pure reverence glowing from his eyes. Azalea sighed as if releasing something long pent-up inside of her. 

The man dipped his head, his mouth nearly landing on one of Azalea’s nipples when the Dowayne’s talon-sharp nails dug into my shoulder for the second time. I snatched my suds bucket handle, this time ready to pretend as if I had been entirely engrossed in my chore. The Dowayne leaned over and clamped her free hand over mine, trapping it and the wire bucket handle in place. If the swift motion had hurt her old joints, she didn’t show it.

I defeatedly looked into her face, and was surprised to see no trace of exasperation or sternness directed at me. Instead, she seemed to be anxious for her own sake. The thought of somewhat being dire enough to rattle the Dowayne made my heart beat in excited terror. She released my shoulder to put a finger to her lips—a clear order to ‘shush.’ I didn’t dare disobey. She brought my hand down to the side of the bucket so that the handle wouldn’t make a crashing noise when she pried my fingers off of it. Then, she righted herself and headed away from the courtyard, pulling my wrist in tow, forcing me to scramble to my feet and follow her.

“Who told you to clean there?” the Dowayne said when we rounded a corner, safely out of Azalea and her patron’s ear shot. 

“Jareth,” I said.

“Oh, tch, of course he did, that…that peabrain,” she grumbled. I tried to suppress my reflexive laugh at hearing the juvenile word from her lips, but as my insides were still taught and twitching in ecstasy from ogling at Azalea, I failed, accidentally spitting while I did so. “The Guild will have my head if they hear you were exposed to that so carelessly.”

She brought me to a lounge area where most of my lessons in music and playing took place. Shelves ran along one wall of the room, displaying Cereus House’s collection of instruments and written music. She all but threw me toward a pouf. I sat obligingly while she fetched a lute to thrust into my arms. 

“Forget your chores. I want you here, practicing, until supper.”

The gray-steel gaze roamed my face once more. I quailed with shame when it came to rest on my eyes, knowing they were still stricken with pleasure. Like before, she was clearly questioning and calculating, though this time, she seemed less sure about whatever she was looking for. 

Unrelated to Azalea or the blustering event that just occurred, I swelled with happiness as the Dowayne turned to leave. She knew I had enjoyed learning to play the lute over any other instruments during my lessons.

Juliette, Etienne, and Phèdre were fairly excited to hear that I had managed a peek at Naamah’s arts in action, listening intently and groaning in dismay when I recounted the Dowayne’s untimely interruption. The detail about her calling Jareth a peabrain earned me a full minute of laughter from them. But, when I tried to describe how much the patron’s expression had moved me, they were simply confused. 

“Well of course men love the sight of tits. That’s like saying horses like oats,” Phèdre said, and in her next breath, she launched into an explanation of how she had learned that some patrons are particularly fixated on the beauty of feet. 

I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to hide how Phèdre’s comment had deflated my mood. Not only because she had sullied and dismissed what I thought was surely a miracle—all the light of Elua’s love and Naamah’s pleasure seeming to illuminate the patron’s eyes—but because she made it sound as if liking the sight of another woman’s breasts was exclusively an obvious and natural thing for men to do. Because of what I had seen, I had spent the afternoon musing that Naamah’s service might actually be enjoyable, especially if it meant I could share intimate moments like that with women patrons. We all knew adepts were expected to serve patrons of all genders, so I didn’t think Phèdre had suggested I would never have the chance to do what I had seen with a woman. However, her comment, in a roundabout way, made me fear that if I were to have a similar encounter with a woman patron, it wouldn’t have been as pure or special. 

I did have one true victory when it came to delivering astonishing news in one of our secret meetings. I decided to be proactive and venture to the practice room where Juliette and Phèdre had made their discoveries, and was able to overhear a lecture describing another rudimentary aspect of Naamah’s arts—the position which the _Ecstatica_ calls “Sailing Through the River Valley.”

After that, I stopped pressuring myself to produce interesting news and simply enjoyed being in the others’ company, giggling along with their stories, and relishing the thrill prickling my spine from staying up late, knowing the adults would not have approved. Though I still struggled with my feelings of insignificance and invisibility, those years were pleasant and undemanding, and the hours we spent conspiring in the dark are among my happiest memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line, “...for the keeping of secrets from adults is oft the only power a child may hope to possess,” from KD inspired this chapter.


End file.
